Death as You Know It

In regards to me, you’re all spectacularly correct about being wrong. Alternatively, you’re all fantastically incorrect about being right.


Here are three things Death is not.

• A giant cloaked skeletal being who wields a scythe. I am NOT a skinny gardener with a sun allergy.
  
• Zeus’ oldest brother who got tricked into ruling hell. If you think thunder thighs and fish lover could outwit me, you’ve clearly been eating the complete bullshit men write to make them feel better about themselves.
  
• An ex follower of Jesus who now guards and marks outside the calcareous concretions gates. My name is not Peter. Saints don’t exist. 

Such
Terribly
Overrated
Patriarchal
Idiotic
Titles

You think there could be no doubt about his sex, and I’ll forgive you because you’ve been force fed by men’s writings but Grim Reaper/Hades/Peter are such unsightly names for someone destined to have their portrait on the wall and their name in the history books. If you’re going to name me, call me Marilyn. After all, no one suspects a pretty girl.

Call me Death or I will kill you – however, Death does not like to kill. I don’t like getting my hands dirty – it ruins the manicure. Not to mention NH3 smells terrible. Your death has nothing to do with me.


This is how it goes.


You’re made on a certain day in a certain way. You could be you. You could be someone else. You could be something else. It doesn’t matter and it’s not foreshadowed, controlled or planned. You’re all accidents. Feel special.

Over the course of your measly life you will experience many things. You’re a side character to someone’s amazing tale but the main character to your own. You were Edmond Dantès. And you were my father. And my mother ... my brother ... my friend. You were you, and me. You were all of us.

Understand that you will meet people here and there. Major and minor characters. If you’re lucky, you might find the one but then again life seems but a quick succession of busy nothings. You need to find good company and my idea of good company is the company of clever, well-informed people who have a great deal of conversation. Unfortunately for you, anyone, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.

Dying time! You died for some reason. I don’t know what and I don’t care. What can I say? Death is Death. Why are you surprised? Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity. Don’t look so disappointed and stop staring at me. I may be death but I’m still self-conscious. You should embrace it. If I must die I will encounter darkness as a bride, And hug it in mine arms. Think of it this way - He that dies pays all debts.

Interestingly enough, this isn’t the end. Looking sad isn’t going to change anything. It’s not my fault your expectation of Death are so high and so inconceivably stupid. Yes, yes, Andy Weir is right. You were kind of right. I’m not God, honey. Does God dress like Meryl Streep in Devil Wears Prada? I think not. Now off you go. I’ll see you and explain this again in a few seconds.

Everyone assumes that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually, from a non-linear, non-subjective, non-stable viewpoint - it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly ... time-y wimey ball of stuff.